“She is so sorry,” pleaded Molly; “she says she will do anything you wish, and attend to all your orders, if she may only stay.”

“But, sweet one, you seem to forget that I cannot go against my principles, however much I may be sorry for Betty. She should not have given way to ill-temper, as I said before; although I never liked her, and considered her a most inefficient servant, thoroughly spoilt by having had no mistress for so long, I should have borne with her—at least, I think I should—as long as I could. Now I have all but engaged Maria, who was under-housemaid at the Towers; so don’t let me hear any more of Betty’s sorrow, or anybody else’s sorrow, for I’m sure, what with your dear papa’s sad stories and other things, I’m getting quite low.”

Molly was silent for a moment or two.

“Have you quite engaged Maria?” asked she.

“No—I said ‘all but engaged.’ Sometimes one would think you did not hear things, dear Molly!” replied Mrs. Gibson petulantly. “Maria is living in a place where they don’t give her as much wages as she deserves. Perhaps they can’t afford it, poor things! I’m always sorry for poverty, and would never speak hardly of those who are not rich; but I have offered her two pounds more than she gets at present, so I think she’ll leave. At any rate, if they increase her wages, I shall increase my offer in proportion; so I think I’m sure to get her. Such a genteel girl!—always brings in a letter on a salver!”

“Poor Betty!” said Molly softly.

“Poor old soul! I hope she’ll profit by the lesson, I’m sure,” sighed out Mrs. Gibson; “but it’s a pity we hadn’t Maria before the county-families began to call.”

Mrs. Gibson had been highly gratified by the circumstance of so many calls “from county-families.” Her husband was much respected; and many ladies from various halls, courts, and houses, who had profited by his services towards themselves and their families, thought it right to pay his new wife the attention of a call, when they drove into Hollingford to shop. The state of expectation into which these calls threw Mrs. Gibson rather diminished Mr. Gibson’s domestic comfort. It was awkward to be carrying hot, savoury- smelling dishes from the kitchen to the dinning-room at the very time when high-born ladies, with noses of aristocratic refinement, might be calling. Still more awkward was the accident which happened in consequence of clumsy Betty’s haste to open the front door to a lofty footman’s ran-tan, which caused her to set down the basket containing the dirty plates right in his mistress’s way, as she stepped gingerly through the comparative darkness of the hall; and then the young men, leaving the dinning-room quietly enough, but bursting with long-repressed giggle, or no longer restraining their tendency to practical joking, no matter who might be in the passage when they made their exit! The remedy proposed by Mrs. Gibson for all these distressing grievances was a late dinner. The luncheon for the young men, as she observed to her husband, might be sent into the surgery. A few elegant cold trifles for herself and Molly would not scent the house, and she would always take care to have some little dainty ready for him. He acceded, but unwillingly; for it was an innovation on the habits of a lifetime, and he felt as if he should never be able to arrange his rounds aright, with this new-fangled notion of a six o’clock dinner.

“Don’t get any dainties for me, my dear; bread-and-cheese is the chief of my diet, as it was that of the old woman’s.”

“I know nothing of your old woman,” replied his wife; “but really I cannot allow cheese to come beyond the kitchen.”

“Then I’ll eat it there,” said he. “It’s close to the stable-yard; and, if I come in in a hurry, I can get it in a moment.”